


playing games

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Competition, Cyvasse (ASoIaF), F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season eight was all a bad dream, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut and Fluff, Strip Tease, Teasing, in which bored jon and dany make some fun, strip cyvasse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: It's raining and Jon and Dany are bored.  So Dany decides to make a game of cyvasse more interesting.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 27
Kudos: 378





	playing games

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Popping my head out of my little break because my bestie (a Jonerys fan and lurker) told me to post this one shot I shared with her since recently it seems there’s been some non-Jonerys making its way through the tag. I have nothing else in draft so this is probably it for awhile. I think I wrote this a month or so ago. Heading back into my cave.
> 
> Anyways, on the nothingness.

“You’re not very good at this game.”

He made a face at her across the partition, before dropping his gaze from her amused expression to the squares, dusting his fingers over the engraved jade and lapis lazuli, trying to decide where he wanted to place his mountain chain versus the sea. He sighed, remembering how she’d managed to pass her dragon over the mountain chain he’d made up as she tended to put her mountains farther back in defense of the king. He switched up his original plan, before he moved over the ivory representing the fields.

Her focus on arranging her pieces made him smile; she was very involved when it came to _cyvasse_ , giving it the same narrow-minded focus, she gave to all her pursuits. If she wasn’t abolishing slavery, setting up recovery efforts after the years of wars, or laying down justice, she ended up finding some other way to focus her attention. He finished with his side of the board and placed his pieces, heavy onyx. She had the ivory ones; the “white” side always went first.

They had played well over three games, some extending for a couple of hours and one lasting several minutes before her dragon had taken out his king. That had been a rather embarrassing setup if he did say so himself. He sighed, hoping that this time he had it set up well enough to at least give her something akin to a challenge.

The rain outside their tent had not let up for the past couple of days. It was coming down in such droves that the horses could barely get several steps before stumbling in the mud, riders unable to see and the dragons refusing to fly, preferring to bed down in their nest of bones in a hillside near their encampment. The Dothraki considered it a bad omen as well, if the horses even could go out, they still wouldn’t. Thankfully they were ahead of schedule on their journey from Kings Landing to Winterfell, laid up along the Kingsroad not far from Riverrun.

As he had no interest in risking the lives of their horses, Dothraki, and the ire of the dragons to stay with Catelyn Stark’s insipid brother—who hated him on principle in solidarity with his late sister—Jon was perfectly comfortable with making camp for a few days to wait out the storm.

Or at least, the first day had been fine. The second day had been irritating, but he’d made do by spending a couple of hours doing his calisthenics, which his queen had spent a few minutes watching before he found himself on his back with her astride him, the next few hours spent finding creative ways to drive each other mad with pleasure and want. Today though, well today he was going what Dany referred to as _tent crazy_. He’d tried reading, going through scrolls, writing out missives to other lords and ladies of the realm, and attempting to practice some sword work in the confines of the tent, but it wasn’t large enough.

That was when she’d set down the _cyvasse_ board and announced that she was planning to _kick his ass_. Which she certainly had. Now he was getting mad that he couldn’t keep up; it was a complicated game to be sure, but this was becoming ridiculous. He had studied battleplans and martial order since he was a child. He’d fought in numerous battles, flown on dragon-back, and he had _killed the Night King._ He even _was_ a king.

Yet here she was, besting him repeatedly at a game of military strategy.

He scowled, rearranging his board one more time before the curtain came up between their sides. _I’m going to win_ , he vowed.

“Care to make this game a little more interesting?”

“What like a wager?” he asked, flipping a mountain square with a sea square. He lifted his eyes to see hers were dancing merrily, the violet flickering in the light from the fire glowing beside them, in the center of the tent. He squinted; there was something else she was planning. He was sure of it. “And what would you care to wager, _Your Grace_?”

“Well, _Your Grace_ , not so much a wager as a bit of fun.” She wrinkled her nose, leaning over the board slightly to purse her lips for a kiss, which he dropped quickly to her lips. She drew back, fingering the tie of her tunic, which peeked out from beneath the heavy robe she wore over it. As they hadn’t been meeting anyone but advisers for the last couple days, even that at a minimum, she wasn’t wearing her standard coat dress and riding breeches.

At the moment the robe was over the undertunic, a thin silk shift, and soft breeches that hit beneath her knee, her feet encased in worn leather boots that slipped easily to her ankles, something she’d taken from the Dothraki. Her braids weren’t as intricate as usual, just three or four pulled back into a single one that dropped down her back, most of the rest of her silver curls left bouncing free.

He squinted again; the smile she wore was almost _too_ innocent. “And how might we do that?”

“Well,” she drawled, lifting up the screen between their sides. She touched the top of her king piece, twirling it in place, her tongue darting out to the corner of her mouth. He felt the sudden urge to lean over and bite at it. _Easy boy_ , he told the wolf inside of him. _Plenty of time for that later._ She picked up the piece, knocking it against her lips, smiling. “For every piece you lose, you also lose an article of clothing.”

_Well that makes it very interesting._

Suddenly Jon really wanted to play this dumb game. More than just to prove himself a worthy military tactician to his queen. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she said. She placed the piece back onto the board, wiggling in place on the large pillow beneath her. She smirked. “First one to lose all their clothes loses the game.”

 _I don’t see how that is necessarily losing the game, but okay._ He grinned. “You’re on.”

“I’m going to beat you.”

“We’ll see.”

~/~/~/~

This was impossible.

Somehow, she was _losing._

In three games that day she had bested him, not just by a margin, but by _huge_ margins. At one point she’d killed his king in all of fifteen _minutes._ In every single game they had ever played, he had only beaten her once and she was positive it was because she hadn’t slept in over two days and was quite ill after eating some poor fish. So of course, he had beaten her then. _And that was it._

Now, when the stakes were changed, he was winning.

So, she sat on her cushions, dragging her finger over the rim of her wine glass, staring at the board and wondering where he might make his next move. Her king was in great peril, but he thankfully didn’t see where he could take it. His dragon was still in play, as was hers. She’d taken out his two elephants though.

It was still horribly mismatched.

She was now down to her undertunic shift and her breeches. Only two more pieces of clothing; she’d forgone smallclothes that morning, choosing to make it easier for him later. It was also a little secret she enjoyed having, walking about in just her breeches. It always surprised him when he reached in during the evening and found a barrier to his prize already removed. Made him even hungrier for her, which in turn just made her wetter. Her breeches were already very uncomfortable, feeling the dampness between her thighs. She pressed them together a bit tighter, attempting to stave off the growing pressure.

Across from her, he sat, his boots and stockings gone as well as the gambeson he usually wore. His fingertip was against his upper lip, tapping as he studied the board, suddenly darting a hand towards one of his catapults, but pausing. She scowled; she had hoped he would take out one of her heavy horses or arrowmen, it would open up an opportunity for her elephant to stampede over his rabble. Give another opening towards the king.

 _Gods he set up the board well._ She wasn’t willing to risk her dragon over his mountain passes; he’d strategically placed those too. She sighed hard, dropping her glass heavily on the wooden tray beside them. She was frustrated. He made another move to the catapult and stopped again, frowning deeper. She stomped her foot on the floor, snapping. “Make a move!”

“You are impatient, my queen,” he murmured behind his finger, his gray eyes darkening. He dropped his gaze from hers towards her chest, where the coolness from the torrential rain outside had managed to permeate into the tent, causing her nipples to harden, showing quite clearly against the thin linen of her undertunic.

She smirked; maybe she wasn’t _quite_ losing this game. “I am not _impatient._ I am simply… _eager_ to get on with my turn.”

“Hmm.”

Somehow her eyes didn’t roll straight from her head when she scoffed at him. She picked up her glass of wine, sipping the Dornish red, watching carefully. He danced his fingers along the pieces before he finally pushed his dragon over three squares, moving in on her elephant. _Yes!_ “You done?” she casually asked.

“Yes. Your turn.”

She set the glass back down and grabbed for her dragon, flying it over the mountain pass and removing his catapult. Now he would be unable to get rid of the dragon. She chortled, his jaw falling. “Ha! Lose the jerkin, Jon Snow.”

He stood, scowling at her as he undid the laces on the neck of the jerkin. “You’re enjoying this.”

“So much,” she purred, lying on her elbow, watching him over the rim of the glass, his smile slow as he removed the laces slowly, before the leather parted at the neck, midway to his chest. She licked her lips, enjoying the show when he reached down for the bottom, pulling the leather up and over his head, tossing it to join the pile of clothes in the corner. She grinned; he’d worn only one undertunic, which hung quite loose on his shoulders, the neck laces already undone.

He settled back onto his cushions, propping his knee up and draping his arm over it. “You happy?”

 _Not until you are writhing beneath me._ She planned to make him suffer for putting her through this. It had been a fun little idea, something to spice up the game, spend their day, but now she was questioning her decision. He was still terribly overdressed, and she had hoped that he would be the first one naked.

Outside the tent she heard footsteps and a voice called over the rain. “Your Graces? It’s Tyrion! Do you have a moment?”

“Go away!” Jon shouted.

“It’s quite rainy still…” Tyrion called; irritation evident in his voice. “And I do have some things to discuss…”

She threw an empty cup at the heavy leather tent drapes, grateful the Dothraki had come up with ingenious ways to make their tents into semi-permanent dwellings, difficult for anyone to just tromp in or try to sneak a peek inside. “The King and I are busy, Lord Tyrion, we will see you tomorrow!”

“You’re just playing _cyvasse_ again!”

 _Clearly, I must kill him_ , she growled, moving to her hands and knees, intent on kicking Tyrion straight back to Kings Landing if he kept this up, but it was Jon who stood, striding over and undoing the ties on the tent, poking his head out into the rain. He had a few words she couldn’t hear and then strode back over, his raven hair slightly damp from the rain.

His tunic was also wet, she noted. “You should remove that, you might catch a chill,” she drawled, finishing off her drink.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am not!” she exclaimed, trying to get to her feet to go get another glass when she tripped, giggling as she grabbed for the bottle on the table by the tent’s entrance. Everything was fuzzy on the edges. For a brief moment there were two Jons watching her from his perch. It was _wonderful_. “Alright, maybe a little.”

He chuckled, wagging his finger at her. “I’ll give you this one, because I’m winning.”

“You are not.”

“Are too.” He pulled off the tunic, revealing the expanse of his chiseled marble chest. She made a sound, one she thought was in her head, but his knowing smirk told her it wasn’t. _Fuck, I think I am drunk._ He sat back down, gesturing to the board. “Come, we have a game to finish.”

 _Fuck this game._ She sat back down, drinking now from the bottle and wondering where to make her next move. She passed the bottle to him, some of the wine sloshing over the top onto her hand. She lifted her finger to her lips, sucking lightly on it, her tongue swirling around the tip, contemplating the options available to her.

While she thought, she dragged her finger down over her chest, to fiddle with the loose laces of her undertunic’s neckline. It was almost hanging off her shoulder, the tent’s warmth returning to her as her body loosened further with the drink. Her fingers snagged on the neckline, dragging it further over her, almost revealing one of her breasts. She sighed, finally deciding to sacrifice one of her elephants when she lifted her eyes up, feeling his gaze upon her.

His eyes were almost entirely black, lips swollen and slightly parted in desire. His chest was rising and falling with each shallow breath, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing. His tongue came out quickly, wetting his lips. Her throat constricted, stomach hollowing at the desire pulsing straight through her, the pressure between her legs practically unbearable. She trembled; fingers shaky when she moved the piece. “Your turn,” she murmured.

They were playing with fire and each of them knew it.

Except she wasn’t going to lose another game to him, she thought, twirling the tie at her neck around, watching him fumble with one of the pieces. She grinned, picking up the bottle again and took another sip.

_Her strategy was working._

~/~/~/~

This woman was going to kill him.

If it wasn’t going to die by the fire that flicked out of her gaze, he was definitely going to die when his dick exploded. He shifted on the cushions, knee up, trying to hide the obvious result of her little finger sucking move a moment before, but they both knew it was for naught. He took a deep breath, holding it, and tried to focus on the _fucking_ game.

There was no way she was going to beat him this time.

She was doing this on purpose, she was toying with him. She knew she was losing so she thought she’d just _seduce_ him before the game ended, but _nope._ She might be the impatient dragon, but he was the wolf and he would spend as long as necessary stalking his prey until he had her by the throat. _Literally._

He’d only removed his tunic because of the rainwater; Tyrion had been standing beneath an umbrella of sorts, but their foolish adviser was soaked through, demanding that they speak about realm matters and then wondering what was going on in the tent, since they hadn’t allowed anyone to enter all day. Sometimes he thought Tyrion was quite possibly the _stupidest_ in all of Westeros. He’d threatened to sic Ghost on him and then have Rhaegal burn him where he stood if he bothered them again, Tyrion taking the threat to heart and rushing off.

There was a game at hand and Jon was _not_ losing.

“Stop it,” he murmured behind his hand, seeing her pick up one of the discarded game pieces from the corner of his eye. He lifted his gaze, peering through his lashes, his breath catching when he saw what she was doing with the piece. It was the elephant he’d lost earlier and she was dragging the onyx over her exposed collarbone, dusting it briefly between the shallow valley between her breasts, up along one of the curves, before she reclined further on her pillows, rolling the piece further down her stomach, the taut muscles he knew lie beneath clenching as she hollowed it, the piece continuing its torturous path over her hip bone and then along her thigh, where she rested it on her knee, drawn up just enough for the linen hem of the shift to fall to the crease between her hip and thigh.

He didn’t need to know she wasn’t wearing smallclothes beneath her breeches; she thought she was so sly, but he’d seen them in the pile of clothing earlier. Plus, she never wore them when it was just them together, she knew he didn’t like to have any obstacles when he took her. It was predictable, but the first place he went was between her legs; he was an addict for the taste of her, all sweet and spicy. He would have those breeches next, he thought, trying not to think about the absolutely _painful_ throbbing between his legs. He tried to think of things to get rid of it. _Anything._

“Jon,” she purred.

 _No, do not look up at her, do not…_ Because he was a weak man, he finally looked up and a sound came out of his throat when he watched her with another _cyvasse_ piece; he could not be bothered to check which one, between her lips, sucking on the onyx, her plump, pink lips pursed over the top of it, her eyelashes dusting the tops of her now flushed cheeks, eyes closed off from his stare, but he knew when she opened them the violet would be drowned out from the black pupils, dilated with want.

She moaned softly, a tiny sound from her rising chest. Her other hand had released from the wine bottle, skimming across the linen shift over her belly, resting between her legs, her palm pressing backwards against the top of her mound, her hips rising against it in one rolling thrust.

There must be gods, he thought, because even the sight of her trying to dissuade him from continuing the game didn’t stop him, even if he felt drunk, movements clumsy when he knocked his piece against hers, seizing her catapult. “Your turn,” he rasped, trying not to look when she moaned again, this time disappointed that he hadn’t made the move she really wanted. He smiled, long and slow, leaning back against the cushions behind him, no longer caring if she saw what she was doing to him.

_It would piss her off more that he wasn’t doing anything about it._

He knew her well, she pouted, brows slamming together and frustration escaping from her lips. She said nothing but got to her feet. There were only two pieces of her clothing remaining. She made to take off the shift, but he shook his head. The pout became more pronounced, a whimper on her lips. “Lose the breeches,” he husked. He reached his arms back, folding them behind his head, watching her think through how she would play this move. He hadn’t quite ended his turn, his abdominals clenching when he fought the urge to just pin her down into the cushions and feast on the wetness, he knew had no doubt turned into a pool between her legs.

There were two sides of his brain warring. A piece of him that wanted her spread beneath him, screaming his name for the entire camp to hear above the rain, the fire within her enveloping him, smothering him inside of her, until he was a drained husk of what he used to be. The other wanted to beat her on _principle._ She thought she was _sooo_ clever, beating him all day long and thinking that she could just change the stakes and still win. _No way._ Now that she was losing, she thought she could turn on her charms and she’d still beat him. It wasn’t going to happen like that.

In fact, he would turn her into a mess before him, falling at his knees until he decided when he wanted her. Then he would turn her over and bury himself inside of her for the rest of time. He bit his lower lip, the part of his brain that wanted to just say _fuck it_ reminding him of that choice, so he reached his hand down and pulled at the laces of his breeches, just enough to ease the pressure, keep him from losing it too early.

She watched his movements, wary. “You alright over there?” she asked, her fingers skimming along the top of her breeches, toying with the laces. She dipped a hand in, gasping softly. “Oh!” He stared, her fingers sliding between her legs, the sight hidden from him, but she shifted her hips, lifting just enough that he knew she’d put one… _fuck_ , she’d put another finger into her channel. The muscles in her forearm flexed as she moved them, hips fucking her hand. “Oh Jon, don’t make me do this alone.”

“Off,” he growled.

Another whimper when she removed her fingers. He gaped, mouth dry, seeing the lubrication slicked over them and she lifted them up to her mouth, tongue darting out to taste herself. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. _Fuck,_ he had to give, just because he was jealous of her for knowing what she tasted like right then. He reached down, pulling at the laces and sliding his breeches over his hips just enough, but he hadn’t lost yet, so his last article of clothing was _not_ joining hers on the floor.

Her dainty feet stepped from the gray material, kicking them aside. Her hand slid down from the inside of her knee and up over a creamy expanse of thigh, fingers pressing into the skin hard enough to leave trails of red from her nails. They toyed with the hem of the tunic, which fell to her mid-thigh, lifting just enough for him to get a glimpse of the flushed lips between her legs. He moved forward, unconscious of his action, only realizing what he’d done when she wagged her finger from side to side, stepping backwards. “No, no, no,” she cooed, sinking back onto the cushions and reclining backwards, adjusting the tunic so it covered her naked bits. “It’s not your turn yet.”

 _Fuck._ He growled, half-tempted to knock all the pieces aside and lunge for her, but she was right. He stared at the board. There was a move she could make, he realized. She’d have his king and she’d win. Then they could be done with this stupid idea. He bit his lip again, so hard he tasted the coppery slick of blood on his tongue, but _no._ He wasn’t going to lose again.

She bypassed the piece that he thought she’d go for first, not bothering to look when she knocked over a few others. He smirked, shifting again, the movement distracting her. _Good._ It was his turn now, and he pulled at the placket of the breeches, just enough for her to see what she wanted, teasing her some more. He arched a brow and picked up two of the game pieces, her violet eyes wary, watching at what he was going to do.

The pale expanse of her chest had bloomed red, breasts rising and falling rapidly. He could see the hardened peaks of them straining against the linen shift, so thin the dusky pink was visible. Her fingers lifted to one, but dropped back down, grappling with her need. He leered, moving and draping his arms over his knees, pretending like he didn’t know what he was doing. Just aimlessly playing with the game pieces. His fingers moved over the ivory, fingers rolling along the tips of them, mimicking what he wanted to do to her. With his fingers or his tongue, she didn't need to know the difference. He would prefer to use his mouth, so he darted his tongue over his lips, skimming along and flicking it out, watching her expression.

Something…a sob maybe, came out of her. She avoided looking at the pieces in his hands. She rose on her hands and knees, leaning over the board, far enough that he could see straight through the gape of the shift’s neckline, revealing the hanging globes of her breasts, her nipples rigid peaks begging for attention. He dropped the pieces at his feet, wanting so badly to get his hands on her. “Oops,” she whispered, not at all sorry when she hit one of the remaining game pieces on the board, leaning even farther to get it, half of her shift now dropped over her shoulder to her elbow, one entire breast finally popping free. She ghosted her knuckles across it, no move to cover herself. She stretched farther back, now the shift falling entirely over her thighs, her legs spreading obscenely, revealing everything to him.

All of her was so soft and pink and glowing. Thighs damp with arousal, the milky white of her skin flushing with each stroke of her fingers over herself. It was quite warm in the tent, the cutout in the ceiling to allow the smoke from the fire in the center to escape still keeping out the rain from the small roof that was over it. He felt sweat beading at the base of his spine and stared as a drop of it fell from her hairline and tracked a single rivulet over her chest and down the bared nipple. He wanted to follow it with his tongue. _Fuck_ , he wanted to _be_ that drop of sweat.

To be honest he had no idea what piece she moved, nor did he care. He swiped his hand out, knocking at the white king piece. “Mine,” he snarled.

“Yours,” she mouthed, palms stroking over her belly.

_Fuck this game._

He surged over the board, knocking the pieces and tiles everywhere, panting at what had been building between them threatened to consume them entirely. They came together in a crash of tongues, teeth, and hands, reaching for anything they could grip. He thrilled at the feeling of her slim fingers tugging at his breeches, pushing them down and finally allowing him to spring free, the exposed air on the flushed heat causing him to fall hard against her, desperate to get inside of her.

He divested her of the shift, finally wrapping his hands over her breasts, mouth following immediately after, tongue flicking against one nipple while he tweaked the other. Her fingers laced together in his hair, yanking at the curls and pulling him over her. They wrestled together on the cushions, kicking at the remaining articles of clothing and the _stupid_ pieces of onyx and ivory that dug beneath them.

All he wanted was to be inside of her, feeling her slick glove-like heat wrapped around him, but she started this, so he would finish it, lips skimming away from her breast and over her stomach, tongue dipping briefly into her navel, swirling around it, a tease of what was to come further south.

“No,” she sobbed, her head tossing on the pillows, silver hair a wild, tangled mess over her face. “Please, gods, Jon, I need you inside of me.”

“No,” he grunted, his hands roughly pulling apart her thighs, thumbs leaving indentations where he gripped her hips, opening her up for him. Somehow he grew harder, her foot resting now on his shoulder, heel digging in as she braced herself for the onslaught. His mouth watered at the feast before him, tongue finally darting out to taste her. It was fucking paradise, he thought, hearing her mewls fill the tent, one hand in his hair pulling hard and the other somewhere up around hers. One glance told him it was in the pillows, knuckles white as she struggled with the feelings filling her. Her hand dropped suddenly to her other thigh, lifting her leg up, granting him more access. 

He sucked, bit, and licked paths along her slit, fingers gliding between her, first one and then another, and by the time he had three inside of her, his body was jealous at what his fingers were getting, the liquid heat of her sucking him, grasping tight. He curved them, seeking the spot inside that had her melting under him, stroking the top of her walls, while his thumb sought her clit, lightly circle in tandem with his tongue. She clenched around him and he could feel the beginnings of her release, hear the increase of her breath as she panted, the frantic cry of his name, but then that part of his brain that wanted to _win_ took over and he released his hold on her, pulling away completely.

The sound she made was inhuman, her mouth dropping open, stunned.

He grinned. “Your move.”

The minute he said it, he regretted it, face falling at the look she gave him, the snarl she emitted. _Uh oh._

_The dragon had awoken._

~/~/~/~

The fucking _bastard_.

She was so close, right there on the edge, she honestly couldn’t believe that the moment his mouth closed over the hardened nub at the apex of her sex that she hadn’t come flying, pleasure slamming into her like she’d fallen a thousand feet from a cliff. No, instead, she’d been in the throes of it, the building of it in her stomach, spidering out rapidly, taking her as her muscles quivered, preparing for the release, it was so close, she was begging him, needing him, about to see it, stars in her eyes...and then… _nothing._

Then that stupid smirk. That _your move._ The fucker thought this was still a _game._

She snapped, her hands grappling against him, knocking him backwards, ignoring the flinch when his head hit against the _cyvasse_ board. _He deserved it._ She dug her nails hard into his shoulders, leaving semi-circle marks before she glided them across the planes of his chest, playing with the dips and curves of his ribs and muscles, mouth following to nip and soothe the scars she found, until one hand firmly gripped his cock, which twitched almost violently in her fingers, his back arching off the cushions and a long tortured sound coming from deep inside of his chest. _Good._

She chuckled, one hand stroking slowly, her thumb skimming over the swollen head, and the other raking her nails over his abdomen, tickling at the soft hairs just beneath his navel. “Fuck,” he mumbled, or variations of “Dany…”

“Hmm, you asked for it.”

 _Let this be your lesson._ Her mouth closed over him, bobbing a few times until she took him in completely, eyes fluttering shut when he hit the back of her throat. She blinked hard when he took her hair into his fingers, pulling on it in the same way she’d done with his moments before, hips thrusting up against her. She groaned around him, sucking and licking, mimicking what he’d done to her. Eyes watering, throat constricting, she let him fuck her mouth, but her body grew jealous. She released her hand on his chest, moving it between her legs, fingers circling shakily along her clit, bringing back the building intensity, hips thrusting against her own hand.

Until he made a roaring sound, a _dragon_ sound, she marveled. She squirmed under him, suddenly pinned back against the cushions, her hips rolled against his, feeling his heavy weight against her thigh. "Fuck me," she begged and he nodded, mouth closing over hers again. They kissed, tongues gliding against each other, her hand cupping his face, a gentleness between them that had been missing from their little game. He bit at her lower lip and then pressed the flat of his tongue to lap at the mark. She squeezed his upper arms, braced above her, a silent signal for him to do it. _Now_ , she begged, mouth breaking from his as she sobbed when he finally pushed into her. Oh gods, yes, she sobbed, the velvet length of him slowly moving in, allowing her to adjust, until he was completely seated inside of her, filling her so perfectly and completely.

 _“Qogralbar nyke,”_ she whined. She bucked into him, wanting him to move. Valyrian always came to her in these moments, when her mind became fuzzy and single-focused. “ _Kostilus, qopsa, adere, sir!_ ”

He quaked over her; she knew he was avoiding driving into her hard and fast, the way he wanted to, the way their game had been going, but _gods_ she needed this. “No more games,” she cried, rolling her hips up, desperate. She needed him to fuck her like she needed air to breathe. Air which she sucked in between parted lips, somehow expanding in her chest, which was pressed against his, her nipples scraping over his heated skin, another moan releasing at the divine feeling.

She delighted in the growls he emitted, when she wiggled her hips against his, taking him in, squeezing around him. She knew he didn’t have a long time in him, and _fuck_ neither did she. Gasping, she canted her hips against his, one of his elbows keeping him braced over her, a hand cupping the back of her head, while the other found the fold of her knee, pushing her leg up higher so the angle changed, allowing her to take him even farther, if that were at all possible at this point, she thought. She ground up against him, meeting him with the same intensity as he slammed into her, his breath coming in spurts as he fucked her. The hand that had lifted her leg moved between them, working fast at her clit, bringing her with him so they could fall together.

And fall they did. It happened suddenly, body seizing completely under him. Her neck arched and his mouth closed over her pulse, sucking on it as he fucked her through her climax, her cunt clamping on him like a vice, the release so hard she didn’t even know if she made a sound, arms tight around his shoulders, shaking so hard she couldn’t even see. He gave a shout, hips stuttering when he came, a minute or so after her. His release filled her womb and she sighed, pulsing around him, milking as much of his seed as she could, mind fogged with pleasure but lucid enough to hope something would blossom from it.

She whispered his name, over and over again, weakly reaching for what she could find, lips brushing against his sweaty brow. The aftershocks kept her twitching for gods knew how long and he quivered inside of her, somehow his fingers managed to move enough over her to give her over-sensitive folds another few strokes, the second release so fast after the other she couldn’t breathe.

They lay together for a few moments more, skin slick with sweat and the remnants of their coupling, her leg still wrapped over his hips and his forehead buried into her shoulder. He moved, lifting carefully off of her, slipping free and she sighed, her body immediately leaning for him, still needing the intimate contact. She frowned, feeling something sharp digging behind her. She turned and reached under her ass, smirking at the dragon _cyvasse_ piece. She chucked it across the room, wiggling into the cushions.

He dragged a fur from the side, pulling it over them, hugging her close. He sighed, breath ruffling her hair that had fallen across her cheek. She lifted her eyes up, smiling warmly at the sated look on his face, eyes closed, dopey smile pulling on his lips. She cuddled against him, legs sliding between his. She sighed. “ _Nyke ērinagon._ ”

“Hmm, what?”

She smiled, translating. “I won.”

The laugh rumbled through him, shaking her over his chest. She didn’t see what was so funny, frowning up at him. He tweaked her nose, amused. “Oh love, did you really win?” He nipped at her lip, growling. “Who was the last one remaining?”

Her eyes widened. She took her shift off first. He took her king. She lost her clothes first. “Fuck!” she exclaimed. This _never_ happened! “You beat me at _cyvasse_?”

“Don’t play hunting games with a wolf,” he sighed, settling into the pillows and furs, playing with the strands of her hair that cascaded over her shoulder. He patted her cheek. “I’ll beat you every time.”

That was her error, she realized, mouth ajar. _He beat me!_ She shook her head, laughing at her mistake. It was a game of strategy, but she’d turned it into a game of hunter and prey. She shook her head, groaning. “Well next time I’ll just burn you and be done with it.”

“Another round?”

“Hmm.” She plucked one of the pieces from where it was nestled in his hair. It was his dragon. She twisted it around, tapping it against his lips before she captured them with hers. “This time, I have a new proposal.”

“What’s that?”

She bucked against him. “No clothes. We’ll see who wins first.” He groaned and she giggled, kissing him again. “Don’t play games with a dragon Jon. I always play to win and when I don't, I need revenge.”

“Hmm, we’ll see.”

They remained against each other for another moment before he pushed her off of him, jumping for the board and scrambling for the pieces. “You’re on.”

She giggled, jumping up to join, only this time she had another idea.

~/~/~/~

“His Grace said that they were playing _cyvasse,_ but one game of _cyvasse_ does not take this long,” Tyrion grumbled, seated at the table in his tent, scowling out at the open folds of the tent’s canvass, staring at the rain that had kept them confined and stuck in this godsforsaken part of the Riverlands. He much would have preferred they just make for Riverrun, even if it meant being in the host of Edmure Tully.

Across the table, Ser Davos whittled away at a piece of wood, blowing off some of the sawdust and studying whatever he was making, before returning his knife to the little block, chuckling. “You think they’re just playing _cyvasse_ all day? Oh Lord Tyrion, I thought you were a man of the world.”

“What? That’s what His Grace said.”

“Hmm,” Davos gazed out at the clouds, shaking his head. “We’re in for another day I think.”

“How would you know?”

“Stormlands, Lord Tyrion, are called that for a reason. I know my storms. We have another day of this I believe. They’ll be busy.” He kept whittling away, chuckling again when Tyrion grabbed for another bottle of wine, pouring the rest into his glass. “Perhaps you should find something to entertain yourself other than drinking and worrying over what the King and Queen are up to, my lord.”

He snorted. “What like play _cyvasse_?”

Davos chuckled again, shaking his head. “I don’t care for that game; besides, I think the King and Queen have found an alternative method.” He pointed his knife towards the tent across the way from theirs, the flags with the wolf and the dragon whipping angrily in the swirling rain. “Why don’t you go find out what they’re doing? Perhaps they’ve finished.” He watched, amused, as the dwarf climbed out of his chair and gathered up the heavy tarpaulin that served as a shield against the rain, trudging off through the mud towards the entrance to the tent.

He set the wood and knife on the table, watching as Tyrion called out over the rain again and stepped back quickly when the ties of the tent doors tore open, this time it wasn’t His Grace that was standing there but Her Grace, wearing a heavy fur cloak that looked like the one the King wore, her silver hair knotted in a crown around her head. She said a few choice words to Tyrion, who shrank further beneath his tarp and then the tent closed again. He waited for Tyrion to return, tossing the soaking tarp aside and glowering up at him, reaching for the wine.

“You find this funny?” he grumbled.

Davos chuckled. “Immensely.”

“I got a peek inside the tent.” He gulped the wine, shuddering. “I don’t think they’re playing _cvyasse_ the way you should.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you see the King has somehow become a _cyvasse_ board.”

Davos roared laughing. He returned to whittling away, while Tyrion tried to drink the image he’d seen away. He sighed. “Young love,” he mused, leaning back and enjoying the sound of the rain.

**fin.**


End file.
